Beauty and the Baller (Strangers in Love #1)(50)

“And my mentor smokes.” I grin as I take the e-cigarette and take a toke, then choke on the flavor. I hand it back. “I’ll pass on this, but thank you, and yes, I’m nervous. Any tips?”

“My advice is to walk in there like a badass. Pretend they’re prisoners, even though they aren’t, of course. Come out of the gate tough. Slam your fist on the desk, march around like a sergeant, rant and rave about how mean you are, and don’t let them give you any lip. If you start out soft, they’ll eat you alive. You can always be nicer, but they won’t buy it if you suddenly become hard. You’ve already lost them.”

My eyes widen. “Got it. Be tough.”

“Now, let’s get to the good stuff. Spill the tea—you and Megacoach a thing?”

I pause, then nod and smile. “Oh yeah. He is . . .” Off limits. “Amazing!”

She narrows her eyes. “That sounded fake. You put your accent in. What’s going on?”

Another bell chimes.

“Bullocks. No time.” She stands up and waves at the air frantically. “I’ll see you at lunch. Good luck, and let me know if I need to beat anyone up. Cheers!”

We slip out of the door and into a crush of students rushing to their lockers. I tell her bye, then walk toward my classroom.

I pause as my eyes catch Andrew as he stands at his podium. A few students are around him, and he’s smiling, his stance easy and confident, and it hits me that he loved US History in school. I wonder if he’s a good teacher, not one of those boring ones like Sabine talks about. He glances over at the door, sees me, and smiles tentatively.

My chest does a weird tightening thing.

After he left New York, I forced myself to become stronger, to wear armor around men, to never get too close. I packed him away in the dark closet of my mind like a forgotten sweater. I told myself I moved on.

Have I?

He comes to the door. “You okay? I can go in and introduce you?”

A memory hits me, one of him giving me a promise ring on our graduation day in front of the entire class. Dammit. Why am I remembering the good things about him? He hurt me. Horribly.

“I’m good. Thanks.” I’m about to turn when he says my name. “Yes?”

He sticks his hands in his slacks. “Does it feel weird to be back here, you know, where we . . . dated?”

I stiffen. “We’re different people now. It doesn’t feel the same.”

“You and Ronan, huh? That was fast.”

“We met in New York years ago.”

“Ah. I’ll be honest. I’m disappointed . . .” He stalls and looks away from me, then rubs his neck. “Sorry. That’s not really appropriate since . . .”

“No, it isn’t,” I snap.

He winces. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

And I’ll have Ronan as my buffer.

I turn to go in my classroom.



Bruno leans his elbows on his book. “Ms. Morgan, this crap is boring.”

I zero in on him. A dark-haired boy with a big smile, he’s part of my third period.

I cross my arms and blow at the hair that’s falling around my face. Also, my lipstick is gone, I stapled my finger, and I got a paper cut.

I’m worn down to a frazzle.

When I walked in my first period, everyone was talking, two girls were out of their seats arguing over a boy, and the boy was in the middle egging it on. One girl was at my desk going through the teacher’s textbook, and another was trying to be her lookout. Someone had written Suck My Cock on the whiteboard, and my chair was turned upside down.

I raised my voice and pretended like they were the worst toddlers I’d ever encountered. I crossed my arms and glared as I announced my one and only preschool rule: Sit down and listen with eager ears!

By the time everything was put back together and I called roll, I realized they hadn’t read their homework from their previous teachers, so we read Shakespeare aloud. Some of the students grumbled, one called me the b-word under his breath, and one student—a guy named Caleb Carson, the one who’d bumped into me when I’d walked in this morning—abruptly stood and left my class when I called on him. Something about his hunched shoulders pricked at me, but I couldn’t leave my class. I wasn’t taking my eyes off this bunch.

Second period was minimally better, and now I’m on my last class.

Bruno flashes me a charming smile, but I don’t trust him an inch. “You agree it’s boring,” he announces.

“Absolutely not.” I shake my head, my face in what I hope is a “This literature is fabulous” look, then sweep my gaze over the class, mostly football players, with a few girls. Most of this period read the assignment, and we had a decent discussion earlier.

“Do we have to answer the questions at the end of the scene? We have a game Friday, and I need to focus.” Bruno again.

I pinch my nose. “Friday is four days away.”

Milo, who’s sitting across from him, gives him a fist bump. “Ms. Tyler let us talk and hang out in class. And she was going to let us watch the movie instead of reading the play. She was cool.”

“I’m not cool,” I reply.

Bruno lets out a jaw-splitting yawn and stands up. “I need to hit the restroom. Where’s the hall pass?”